Friday, December 14, 2012

Frozen

I
was standing on the elevated platform at 125th, tea in hand, ready for the 6:13
train to my gig. We were all bunching our shoulders a bit against the cold,
avoiding each other’s eyes.

Then
to my left a shout, stark, then cut off. I turned and leaned over the edge of
the platform. Very nearby, a man lay hunched over the nearest rail, unmoving. I
saw his red-checkered shirt and white t-shirt and pale jeans. His limp legs
curled away from him and his back was a mound over the track. I heard his pleas
for help. He begged for help, shrill, over and over, could anyone help him. I
looked past him.

The
6:13 was late, and now was a white flare, growing, harsher and brighter by the
second. There were shrieks in the crowd, groans, cries to God. I turned right.
There were three women in yellow reflective MTA jackets. I hoped they had radios.
They didn't. Wild waving of arms, of palms pumping the air to will the train
into stopping. We shouted, incoherently. I don't think we used words, only
cries.

There
was no time. I walked a few feet closer. The white light grew and grew and
grew. You could never have leaped into the track, picked up a wounded person,
hoisted him to safety first, then yourself, in time. It was impossible. In
our helplessness, there was only horror. You could only watch. Those very few
seconds when nothing but watching could be done, they dropped away one by one.

The
white flare was now brilliant. The front of the Metro-North train was sooty
blue, #209. It had begun to slow down, in a fashion almost grotesque. It slowed
just as it passed over the helpless man's form. I felt perverse.

An
ugly moan rose from the crowd. Around me were a few women who burst into instant
tears. One turned her back. One, in the reflective jacket, gripped her own head
and wailed and stomped in circles and cried to God that this was
'overwhelming'. That was her word. It struck me, that word, almost from afar. I
had my hand to my mouth and my eyes had never left the train.

Minutes
passed. Very few of us left the platform. We remained, hardly logical. But we
did remain. The firemen and police arrived with near instant speed, cordoning
off part of the platform and gathering near where the train conductor leaned
out of his window and darted around an anxious head.

I
called out of my gig. They were very sympathetic.

Then
I called my father, the original YVES. I had to talk to someone, and for all
our differences, he was the one I thought to call. I told him the story while I
still watched the train. Through a shifting crowd I could spot flashlight beams
crossing each other and flicking underneath the train. I finished telling my
father the story. He swore softly. To swear is his way. To swear softly has
never been his way.

Then
he instructed, "Get the FACK out of there, you can do nothing, just go, it
was a horrible experience, traumatizing, but get the FACK out of there while
you still can!" Not necessarily unwise.

All
at once, heads started to snap to each other and murmurs trickled over. The
woman in the yellow reflective jacket bobbed from one person to the next,
"He's alive! He's alive! He's under there, they hear his voice and he's
sitting up! But they can't move the train or they'll kill him!"

This
news was no less overwhelming but shouting it to God seemed less urgent. He
likely knew already.

I
told my father the news, in a voice less taut, less repetitive and nearly
piercing.

"THERE
you GO, see?,” YVES declared. “He's alive, he's fine, no problem, now get the
FACK out of there!" YVES is often of a fixed mind on things.

The
firemen used a ladder to climb down into the track and a cluster of them,
helmeted and in striped, heavy jackets, bent around the front of this frozen
train.

I
ended my call. I couldn't leave. I had to know. They got him out, and I only
wish I knew how. But they did. The fallen man survived.

I picked up my tea from where I'd dropped it then threw it away. I didn't
have a taste for it anymore. I passed the cordoned off stairwell and down onto
Park Avenue where a mass of flashing sirens and speculating citizens stood with
their heads craned up above.

Tonight
I watched a train rumble over a helpless man on the tracks. Then I watched him live
to tell the tale.

2 comments:

I have known of such tragedies. But I have never felt, seen, heard so intimately what you have witnessed on that platform. You did all, everything you could do immediately: write. And we, fortunate readers, can relive your Christmas miracle.

About Me

At night I play the piano for drinkers to keep my lights on.
During the day I tear around and plot to hit it big and not have to play the piano late at night anymore.
The rest of the time I write these stories to stay sane.